


Of masks and the men that wear them

by userniko



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Psychoanalysis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:42:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27080626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/userniko/pseuds/userniko
Summary: A brief drabble about how I imagine Hannibal sees the world//Set when Hannibal is institutionalized//
Kudos: 2





	Of masks and the men that wear them

Everybody wants to try to understand why killers do what they do. True crime, tabloids, and fiction all toyed with it, all asked why, but few people were capable of understanding the mind of a killer even when they were handed it on a platter.  
That's why Will was so in demand, Hannibal mused. A man who could translate.

Chilton had wanted to know why, once Hannibal was in containment at his hospital. Why he did it at all, why he chose the rude, why the artistry. But he didn't deserve an explanation.  
Will probably understood. Or would, once he knew a little more of Hannibal's past.  
He wanted to be seen by Will. Known, the way he hadn't been since he was a child.

The person-suit had made him lonely. Many of the patients he saw who wore masks said the same thing. The narcissists pretending to be empathetic, the depressives pretending to be cheerful, the autistic that had been taught to read from the script of 'normal conversation' in every interaction outside of the home.  
It reminded him of the plight of immigrants learning a new language. The inability to speak without effort, or to receive communication without translating and interpreting, made many of them feel as if they weren't really talking. They did not reap the emotional benefit that one usually does from socializing, because they didn't feel a connection.  
Most of his patients also struggled with the dishonesty of the act, and tried to make a mask that resembled their true face as closely as possible. More of their neurosis came from the dissonance of not being what they believed they ought to be, than the loneliness.  
Hannibal didn't bother. His person suit was nothing less than a work of art, in his opinion.

It was one of the reasons he enjoyed the company of high society. Others that had been raised to be on their guard, to wear a mask, and not to speak their minds. Even the average person felt a pressure to perform at such events, to seem different than what they were. At his parties he felt as though he were at a masquerade, and his was the most fascinating and convincing mask of all.

It still wasn't enough, though, to alleve the loneliness. But after the terrible events of his childhood, he'd been pressured and prodded and tamed until he'd accepted that he had to hide, to perform.  
First it was the orphanage, punishing him harshly when he found himself taken there, hysterical with grief and rage. Then his aunt and uncle, well-meaning though they were, sent him from psychiatrist to psychologist trying to fix what could never be put back together. Lithium and other medications blurred many of those days, until he couldn't bear it anymore and started to wear the mask, to work at convincing others.  
And with that finally came freedom. Not to behave exactly as he wanted, but a freedom of movement, a lack of scrutiny, being let off the leash.  
Such was Hannibal's lot in life. Many people wore masks of varying size and shape, his happened to be a whole suit.

Hannibal was a very good psychiatrist. He knew very well that his anger towards the rude was a type of sublimation, redirecting his anger from the system that forced him to hide to the people who flaunted the system to his face.  
But it worked, and it made him feel oh so very much better.  
Those people thought that the rules didn't apply to them, because their deviance was small enough to be ignored or brushed off, or aimed in an acceptable direction. Such a light mask to wear, and yet they flaunted their lack of compliance to Hannibal's face, not knowing what was under the other's mask.  
It gave him no small joy to show them what their place in a world without masks would really be.

And like he had turned himself into a work of art, he turned the rude into recreations or scenes of beauty. As obscene and gruesome as others found it, to him it was putting things in their proper place.  
Turning their meat into gourmet food was another form of art, and of making the rude palatable. The only way they're be fit to attend his dinner parties, since they insisted on acting like beasts instead of humans, was on a plate.

At the same time, there was also the pleasure Hannibal took in serving human flesh to others, in hiding the perverse truth in something beautiful. People don't want to know how the sausage is made, don't care what forcing others into an acceptable shape does to them inside, just as long as they're served an appetizing dish. So Hannibal hides that truth from them, the way they always demand truths they don't like be hidden.

And there I am, Hannibal thinks. Do you see, Will? You of all people should understand.  
Will was straining under the weight of his mask. Most people seemed to think he was just not strong enough to hold it up much, but Hannibal suspected that the mask was much, much bigger than anyone else realized.  
Even pretending, Will was better company than anyone else Hannibal had ever had the pleasure to meet. The way they danced around each other, clashed wits, made Hannibal feel as if he'd finally met his other half at the masquerade. They may only have a vague idea of what each other looks like without the mask, but it's enough.  
Hannibal had taken his mask off. He only hoped Will would join him soon.


End file.
